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Pale Autumn's purple Crocus, seem
Than other flowers more dear.
I meet it on the cold bleak hill
When sunshine there is none,
And all the Summer darlings have
Departed, every one.
I look upon its outward form
So delicate and frail;
And wonder how so slight a thing
May breast the boisterous gale.
But it is humble; o'er its head
The blast that reuds the oak
Passes all harmless, though the flower
A fairy's foot had broke.
I gaze into its vaselike cup
Of amethyst, where low
A star of deep rich gold doth round
Fling a warm yellow glow.
Hid from the spendthrift breeze, the flowers
Their wealth all meekly keep,
Till they who know the treasure's worth
The golden harvest reap.[1]
- ↑ Saffron is made from the yellow anthers of the Autumn Crocus.
